


On the Fly!

by taizi



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:56:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worth's is a hugely successful restaurant whose biggest selling point is the maitre d' in checkered Vans, who folds cranes for first-time customers and picks out a new name for you every morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Fly!

"Look alive, guys!" comes the cheerful call from the front of house as Hanna swings by the counter to flash you all a thousand kilowatt smile. "It's eleven!"

Toni hops off the counter and brushes out her apron, patting down her pockets as she goes through the usual checklist; notepad, pens, loose change for the claw machines, crayons, bottle of Tylenol just in case, secret stash of chewing gum. With a sweep of long black and blue hair, she winks at you and pumps her fists.  _Ready._

The grill cook stretches his arms over his head mightily, and his angry face is maybe just a little softer as he watches the two servers weave through tables, straightening chairs and pulling up blinds and giggling together as they fight with the ancient lock on the front doors. Grabbing a bus tub from under the counter, and piling in the dishes from the breakfast the five of you shared, he balances it on a hip with one-armed ease and punches your shoulder as he passes through to the kitchen.

"Game time."

Sunlight is streaming in through the windows, and Toni flips the sign from Closed to Open. There's already a few people waiting outside, and she lets them in with a warm welcome.

Hanna breezes past, bumping your arm playfully, and drops the keys back into the register. Then he turns to face you, the force of his smile dimpling his cheeks in the most charming way possible, and pulls a Sharpie and a "Hello, My Name Is" sticker from his impossible waist apron pockets.

He uncaps the marker with his teeth, leans over the front counter and starts scribbling; and you try to memorize the way his red hair burns in the early afternoon sun, because it's not something you ever want to forget. Then his eyes flick up to meet yours, a grin curling across his face as he peels away the sticker and reaches up to smooth it with care over the blank nametag on your uniform shirt.

"Today," he says, in this quiet moment the two of you share every morning, "you're Callaghan."

You cover the name on your chest- yours for the day- and for a split second your fingers meet there, overlapping on the nametag warmly, and neither of you yank away. Instead, he giggles, and you can't help but smile, and then Toni's rushing by with drinks and that quiet moment is gone.

Veser smacks the bell on the pickup window with the spider strainer, because there are plenty of regulars and he knows most of these orders by heart; you load the plates up on a tray and balance it up by your shoulder on one hand, and you could navigate the dining room blindfolded at this point. You move from table to table with ease, dropping off starters and sides, and the customers greet you by your name-of-the-day.

When you bring back your empty tray, the order wheel is half full and Veser and Toni are back on the grill line splitting a quick Rockstar. Hanna, whose energy is always boundless and of mysterious origin, is behind the front counter, standing as tall as he can on checkered toes to flip on the radio.

It's eleven forty-four, you've got five tables in your station, and the GM comes out from the back office to help Veser on the line. Freddie Mercury's crooning through the speakers in the dining room, Toni's got a booster seat balanced over her shoulder like a seasoned pro, and Hanna's seating two new faces at a corner booth with menus and the honorary first-visit tradition of bev naps folded into origami cranes.

And then Hanna comes rushing by you, writing their names on his palm with the Sharpie, tongue stuck out just a little in concentration; and he doesn't notice the chair pushed out too far into the aisle. His foot catches on the leg and he pitches forward with a yelp, but he doesn't fall.

Because you've caught him around the waist, and pulled him up so smoothly it might have looked like dancing. For a single, breathless, weightless moment he's in your arms, and Queen's still ruling the airwaves, and with the delicate pink in his face and the wide blue of his eyes, you can't help but think it's all perfect.

Then Toni's tugging him away, giving you a look that clearly says,  _"not on the clock, guy,"_ you hold your hands up in amused surrender, and Hanna's back in motion. He runs and slides a few feet to the pickup window, greets Worth enthusiastically when he spots him back there, informs him he should probably go ahead and hire that sweatervest guy, 'cause business has been booming lately like _woah_ , and sticks a ticket up on the order wheel.

"Hey Ves, I need that House Sampler on the fly."

"You got it, boss."

But when Hanna catches your eye across the room, there's still pink in his cheeks. You direct your smile at your next table, but you know he knows it's really his.


End file.
